


waiting for sleep, to offer up the deep

by shinykari (meinterrupted)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: #coulsonlives, Anal Sex, Body Calligraphy, Bottom Clint Barton, Fix-It, M/M, Safer Sex, Top Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:39:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinterrupted/pseuds/shinykari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I am writing graffitti on your body / I am drawing the story of how hard we tried</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	waiting for sleep, to offer up the deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlatlandDan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlatlandDan/gifts).



> For flatlanddan, who requested Clint/Coulson smut with writing on skin for her birthday. I hope this works for you! Thanks to daroos and allochthon for beta'ing.
> 
> Title and summary are from Ani DiFranco's "Both Hands."

"I wanna try something," Clint murmured. The two of them were lying naked in bed, Clint's cheek pillowed on Phil's chest, a few inches from the wound that should have killed him. Thanks to some experimental medical procedures and a bit of Asgardian healing magic, the scar looked old, but Clint still felt his heart catch in his throat whenever he thought of losing Phil.

Phil hummed lazily. "Okay," he said, carding his fingers through Clint's hair.

Clint smiled, then turned his head to press a soft kiss to Phil's skin. "Be right back." He rolled away from Phil, already mourning the loss of his heat as he padded over to the bookcase. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for: a well-loved, intricately carved wooden box. He glanced over his shoulder to see Phil watching him, his lips upturned in a small smile that Clint couldn't help but return. "I've got to get it ready. You don't mind waiting?"

"Not for you," he answered.

A warm sensation bloomed in Clint's belly, and part of him wanted to forget the box and pounce on Phil, kiss him senseless, and then ride his cock until they both came. But this--this he needed to do. He flashed Phil a quick smile before retreating to the bathroom with his supplies.

The box was old, and had been old when it had come to Clint. Years of fingers tracing the designs had worn them down, but the leaves and vines were still beautiful. Inside, the red velvet that cupped all the pieces was bare in places, and the small glass bottle was stained dark. He picked up the charcoal stick and carefully shaved a precise amount of dust into the bottle, then added an ounce of water. After a moment of indecision, Clint squeeze a few drops of honey into the mixture and stirred it with the tiny whisk.

Clint traced the handles of the three calligraphy brushes before picking the largest one. The two smaller ones were good for detail work, but for this--for Phil--he wanted to brand him as broadly as possible.

With the brush in one hand and the ink in the other, he returned to the bedroom. Phil was still lying on his back in their bed, his skin, paler than usual from his convalescence, was a shocking contrast to the black sheets. His eyes were closed, lashes fanned out against his cheeks, and Clint thought he'd never seen a sight as beautiful. After what Loki had done to him--to both of them--that they'd been given this second chance at all was a miracle, and Clint was planning on taking full advantage.

"Phil, you falling asleep on me?" he asked, voice gentle.

"Mmm, no, just resting," he mumbled, blinking awake with a smile.

Clint leaned in and brushed his lips against Phil's, a brief, chaste, kiss. "Turn over, babe. On your stomach."

Phil did as he asked, stretching leisurely as he did so. As soon as he settled himself, crossing his arms under his head, Clint straddled his thighs and set the glass bottle in the hollow at the base of his spine. "If you're planning on a massage," Phil said, "I'm definitely going to fall asleep."

Clint smiled to himself. "I'll keep you awake," he quipped, smacking Phil lightly on the ass. "Now," he scolded, "be still."

"Yes, sir," Phil said.

Clint opened the bottle, and dipped the bristles of the brush into the black, slightly viscous liquid. Starting at the base of Phil's spine, he began tracing flowing lines, curls and leaves, using the shape of Phil's muscles as the foundation. As he finished each finial, he returned to the bottom and blew on the ink, using his breath to dry it. Under him, Phil shuddered, his whimpers growing stronger and needier with each stroke.

Once Phil's back was covered with ink, Clint had him turn over. His cock was fully hard between his legs, and his blue eyes were dark with need. "Fuck, Clint," he said, voice wrecked. "I didn't know being painted was such a turn on."

Phil leaned up for a kiss, but before he could deepen it, Clint pulled back. "I'm not done."

Phil flopped back against the pillows with a frustrated exhale. "You're gonna kill me, I swear."

"No, never," Clint whispered, then began working on Phil's front. He painted thick black strokes up from his pubic hair, spiraling around his navel, and then up toward his nipples. Each time he stopped to let the ink dry, he teased the head of Phil's cock, lapping up the salty precome before it could ruin his designs. With the ink and brush, Clint made the white and pink scar above Phil's heart the centerpiece of a bold creation, something that incorporated a bit of the Asgardian runes that had saved Phil's life, several stylized arrows, and Clint's own name. "Never going to let you go, Phil, I swear."

Phil jerked up, rubbing his cock against Clint's thigh. "Please, Clint, I need-- I need--"

"Shh," Clint said, continuing up to emphasize the muscles of Phil's biceps and his Ranger tattoo with ink. Finally, after several long minutes, he capped the ink and set the brush aside, and grabbed a condom and a bottle of lube. "What do you need, baby?"

"Need you, please, fuck you," Phil babbled, skin flushed under the swirls of black ink.

Clint nodded and rolled the condom onto Phil's cock, then slicked it up generously. Phil had fucked him the night before, working him open with his fingers until Clint was begging, but today, Clint needed to feel him. He lifted himself up and lined Phil's cock up with his hole, then slowly, oh _so_ slowly sunk down. Phil's hands were fisted into the sheets, the muscles in his arms and chest working as he forced himself still, and jesus _fuck_ he looked good with Clint's ink on him.

The stretch and burn of Phil's cock in his ass was so good, and Clint wanted to bottle this feeling and keep it forever. He would feel this for the rest of the day, at least, and know, for certain, that Phil was here, that Phil was his, that Phil was _alive_. He raised up, his thigh muscles working, then slid back down, throwing his head back and rolling his hips.

Eventually, the slow, lazy sex gave way to their combined need, and Phil flipped Clint onto his back. Clint moaned and wrapped his legs around Phil's waist, while Phil buried his face into Clint's neck. "You've been, uh, teasing me for an hour, Clint," he panted, fucking him with strong, powerful strokes. "Thought I was going to go out of my mind."

Clint just whined in answer, clinging to Phil's shoulders as his orgasm started to build. With each thrust, his cock rubbed against Phil's stomach, precome easing the way, until he came, crying out Phil's name and spattering both their chests. Phil followed him over, slamming into Clint one final time as he shuddered above him,

They panted into each other's mouths for a few moments, until Phil managed enough strength to roll off Clint, pull his softening cock from Clint's hole, and flop onto his back. Clint smiled lazily at the ache between his legs, and curled up against Phil's side, smudging the ink and semen with his hand. "I'm a mess," Phil muttered, indicating both the irretrievably smeared calligraphy and the condom that neither of them had the energy to get rid of at the moment.

"Mmm, a little bit," Clint agreed, tracing one of the better preserved lines.

"So," Phil asked after a moment, his voice soft, "what was that about?"

Clint swallowed. "I just..." He ran his finger up toward the scar on Phil's chest. "When I was a kid, in the circus, there was a woman who was with us for just about a year. She was a fortune-teller, mostly Tarot and palm reading. She taught me a little calligraphy, how to mix the ink, that sort of thing. Then management found out she'd been using her sleight-of-hand skills to lift customer's wallets, and they fired her. But before she left, she gave this to me. It's one of the only good things I took from that place."

Phil hummed happily and rolled on top of Clint, pinning his arms above his head. Clint's come was cool and sticky between them, but when Phil leaned down to kiss him, licking filthily into his mouth, Clint couldn't find it in himself to care. Neither of them were getting hard, and wouldn't for a while, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the closeness.

"I love you, Clint Barton," Phil whispered, his words feather-light against Clint's lips. "Even if you are a very dirty man."

"I love you too, Phil," Clint responded.


End file.
